


Company In The Cold

by sunlian



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: (but it’s just a cold don’t worry), Act 1, Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Pre-Relationship, Sick Character, merrill w a sniffle is a very cute mental image, set in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-03-03 09:13:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13338111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunlian/pseuds/sunlian
Summary: During her first year in Kirkwall, Merrill gets sick. And then winter hits.Thank goodness she’s not as bad at making friends as she thinks.





	Company In The Cold

**Author's Note:**

> im a SAP. a big GAY sap 
> 
> very obviously inspired by a fic written by my very good friend gothic-princess-witch! which you can check out here ( https://gothic-princess-witch.tumblr.com/post/167596275981) and while you’re there, check out all her stuff as well! 
> 
> expect a bunch of merrill/Hawke stuff in the coming days/week; i have a BUNCH of oneshots to finish before im gonna move onto my other stuff (which, yes, includes the next Epithet chapter, for those of you who care)

During her first year living in the city, Merrill falls ill.

Nothing deathly or seriously worrying, but it’s enough to keep her confined to her little house for most of the week, sniffling and shivering, only venturing out to buy food from the nearby alienage markets. She considered visiting Anders’ clinic for potions if not healing, but found herself unable to make the walk to Darktown.

“It’s the cold,” she insisted to a concerned Isabela when she came to visit, “n-not... well, it’s a little bit of the head cold, in combination with the actual c-cold.”

Not that she really needed it; it’s a cold, a persistent sniffle at the very worst.  
Then winter hits, really hits, and she’s all but bedridden.

Her house is freezing; snow falls through the gaps of her roof, harsh wind whips through the broken and thin walls. There’s a fireplace in the main room, not that it matters; the Dalish woman is curled in her sheets as tightly as she can manage, drifting in and out of consciousness, dizzy from the constant headaches that wrack her whenever she’s awake.

And on top of it all, it all makes her viciously homesick. She remembers getting sick as a child, being tended to by Marathani, blanketed in the cozy warmth of an aravel, wrapped up in soft blankets, and being kept company by Mahariel and Tamlen.

In Kirkwall, the blankets are scratchy and thin, and there’s no comforting warmth, no soothing hand on her forehead. No one keep her company. She’s sick and freezing and completely alone.

Until she hears her door being slammed open, the winds howling suddenly amplified, and then muffled again as the door slams shut, heavy armoured footsteps filling up the small space.

“Merrill?”

Oh. Oh. It’s just Hawke. Thank the Creators. For a couple of horrifying seconds she thought it might’ve been- well, someone she wouldn’t want in her house.

“Merrill? Are you home?” She calls again, and Merrill can hear her pacing in the main room.

“Y-yes I’m-“ She clears her throat, mildly embarrassed by how weak and scratchy it sounds, “I’m in my room!”

Hawke’s face is a welcome sight, even if she’s a bit blurry, standing in the doorway, a thick cloak draped across her shoulders and over her plate armour. As she draws closers, Merrill sees the slight redness on her face, no doubt a result of the icy winds currently battering Lowtown.

She moves beside beside her bedside, brow furrowing in what Merrill thinks is concern.

“You look terrible,” Hawke mutters, and before she can object, Hawke pulls something out from the cloak, “and don’t try to tell me it’s not that bad; you are quite literally bed-ridden.”

“It’s-“ Merrill stops to sniffle as Hawke sets the thing- the box- she pulled out on the edge of her bed, rifling through it, “T-the snow storm d-didn’t help.”

Hawke snorts, somewhat amused, producing a little pot from the box, pulling the top from it and offering it to her.

“Here, grabbed you something warm to eat. It.. probably isn’t that good to be completely honest.”

Merrill accepts it gratefully. It is still warm, and the heat stings her cold hands a little bit, but the thin steam rising from the dark liquid clears her nose ever so slightly. She sips gingerly; warmth floods her mouth and throat almost instantly, and it’s one of the best things Merrill’s tasted, unidentifiable chunks of meat and... something doughy aside.

“It’s very nice Hawke,” she says sweetly after a few mouthfuls, feeling more awake and slightly better than she was five minutes ago, “erm... what is it, exactly?”

“It’s supposed to be chicken noodle soup. ‘Supposed to be’ being the key words here,” Hawke replies with a smile, “if I was good at cooking as I was at swinging a sword, I probably wouldn’t need to even consider this Deep Roads expedition.”

“You could get a job at the Hanged Man,” Merrill smiles, breaking in giggles at the exaggerated grimace Hawke pulls at the suggestion, “t-then again, darkspawn would probably be easier to deal with then s-some of the patrons. You c-couldn’t just lop someone’s head off for being disruptive.”

“Not without a stern talking-to by Aveline, certainly,” Hawke answers with a lazy grin, the ever-persistent glint in her dark eyes softening somewhat, never moving away from Merrill’s face.

It’s... it’s nice, this attention from her. It’s not home, not her clan, by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s comforting, in its own way. The warmth of the soup sitting her stomach, seeping through the pot and into her fingers, Hawke’s own warmth next to her, the almost comical way her bed is dipping from her weight.

And just Hawke. Being here. Talking to her, making her smile. It’s very... nice, warm in a different way, a way that makes her quietly grateful that her face is already quite flushed.

“Erm, Hawke... would you mind... staying? Just until the wind dies down, maybe?”

Hawke blinks, her grin shifting into a smaller, surprised smile, “You know, I was about to ask just that.”

“O-oh! Well! That’s... that’s very good!”

Hawke laughs again, the softness never leaving her eyes, “Why don’t I go grab a chair. As comfortable as your bed is, it’s a little bit small for me.”

Merrill feels a twinge of disappointment at that, but it’s quickly replaced by Hawke’s smiling presence at her beside.

“Maybe the next time we do this, we can skip the ‘you being sick part.’”

“That sounds lovely, Hawke.”


End file.
